That shapes this monstrous apparition— It comes upon me-Art thou any thing? Light thickens: and the crow Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; And 'tis not done; th' attempt and not the deed, Enter MACBETH. Mac. I've done the deed-didst thou not hear a noise? Lady. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. Did you not speak? Mac. When? Lady. Now. Mac. As I descended? Lady. Ay. Mac. Hark-who lies i' th' second chamber? Lady. Donalbain. Mac. This is a sorry sight. Lady. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight. Mac. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cry'd murder! That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them: But they did say their pray'rs, and address'd them Again to sleep. Lady. There are two lodg'd together. Mac. One cried, God bless us! and Amen, the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands, Listening their fear; I could not say Amen, When they did say God bless us. Lady. Consider it not so deeply. Mac. But wherefore could I not pronounce Amen? I had most need of blessing, and Amen Stuck in my throat. Sorrow. SEEMS, madam? nay, it is: I know not seems. Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath; W Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief Remorse. Oя when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Mad'st it no conscience to destroy a prince. Despair. K. Hen. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign. Car. If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's treasure, Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain. K. Hen. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, When death's approach is seen so terrible! War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. Dy'd he not in his bed? where should he die? Can I make men live, whether they will or no?--- Alive again? then show me where he is, I'll give athousand pounds to look upon him.- Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright, K. Hen. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens, Look with gentle eye upon this wretch; O beat away the busy meddling fiend, That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul, And from his bosom purge this black despair! War. See how the pangs of death do make him grin. K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be! Surprise and Astonishment. GONE to be married, gone to swear a peace! Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again: It cannot be thou dost but say 'tis so. What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld, Of Murder's arms: This is the bloodiest shame, That ever wall-ey'd Wrath, or starving Rage, Pride. YOUR grace shall pardon me, I will not back; To be a secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument To any sovereign state throughout the world. After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And now, it is half conquered, must I back, Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To under-prop this action? Is't not I That undergo this charge? Who else but I, I will oppose his fate. Our force by land Hath nobly held: our sever'd navy, too, Have knit again, and fleet, threat'ning most sea-like. Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady? If from the field I should return once more, I will appear in blood; I and my sword will earn my chronicle; 'There is hope in it yet: I will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breath'd, Show me what thou'lt do; Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up esil; eat a crocodile ? I'll do't-Do'st thou come here to whine, To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I : And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Perplexity. YES; 'tis Æmilia :-by and by.-She's dead. Vexation. O WHAT a rogue and peasant slave am I ! But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, Peevishness. Troi. What, art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with me! Pan. Because she's akin to me therefore, she's not so fair as Helen; an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a blackamoor, 'tis all one to me. Troi. Say I she is not fair? Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay behind her father: let her to the Greeks-and so I'll tell her the next time I see her-for my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i' th' matter. Troi. Pandarus Pan. Not I. Troi. Sweet Pandarus Pan. Pray you speak no more to me-I will leave all as I found itand there's an end. Malice. How like a fawning publican he looks! But more for that, in low simplicity, He lends out money gratis, and brings down I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. How blest am I Jealousy. In my just censure! in my true opinion I-~ The abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known |